‘I know Bess hoped things would change,’ Miss Jarvis continued. ‘She so wanted to be close to you … But you were your father’s daughter by then. All you wanted was your dad, not her. I suppose it must have seemed very unfair to her, as if Albert was still taking you away from her even after he was dead. So she threw herself into something practical, making a good life for you both.’
‘She was always working,’ Polly recalled.
‘She had to,’ Miss Jarvis said. ‘Your father was never a rich man, but he’d died leaving a great many debts. Your mother had a struggle on her hands to pay them off and keep a roof over your heads.’
‘I never knew.’
Miss Jarvis’ mouth curved. ‘Forgive me, but there is a great deal you didn’t know.’
Polly was silent. It was true, she thought. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but suddenly so many things began to make sense.
‘It was the happiest day of Bess’ life when you decided to become a nurse,’ Miss Jarvis said. ‘She truly thought it must mean something, that you’d decided to follow in her footsteps.’
She hugged me, Polly thought. What did it say about them both that she could remember each and every time her mother had put her arms around her? She looked at Miss Jarvis. ‘I did it because I wanted her to notice me.’
Miss Jarvis’ smile wobbled. ‘Oh Polly,’ she said, her voice choked. ‘If only you knew how desperately she wanted the same thing.’
‘But then Frank came along?’
‘Indeed,’ Miss Jarvis sighed. Polly watched her pouring more tea, refilling their cups. ‘Now do you understand why she was so set against him? Not only did she think she might lose you again, she could see history repeating itself.’
‘Frank wasn’t like my father! He would never—’
‘I know.’ Miss Jarvis set the teapot down. ‘But your mother didn’t. All she saw was another handsome, feckless charmer who was going to break your heart and ruin your life just as hers had been ruined.’
‘She wouldn’t have thought that if she’d got to know him,’ Polly said resentfully.
‘No one ever said your mother was a saint, Polly. You know as well as I do that Bess Bradshaw speaks before she thinks most of the time.’
‘Like I do,’ Polly murmured. Miss Jarvis raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
It seemed odd to be sitting down and sipping tea when her life had been turned upside down, but Polly didn’t know what else to do. Miss Jarvis’ revelations had put her mind in turmoil, changed everything about the way she viewed the world.
‘Why didn’t she ever tell me?’ She hadn’t realised she’d spoken the question aloud until she saw Miss Jarvis smile.
‘Because she knew how much you adored your father, and how much it would hurt you to hear the truth.’
Polly lifted her gaze. ‘Then why are you telling me?’
‘Because I think you deserve to know,’ Miss Jarvis said simply. ‘And I can’t stand by any longer and watch you hating your mother when all she’s done is try to love and protect you.’
Polly stared down into her cup. There was simply nothing she could say to that.
Miss Jarvis set down her cup and stood up. ‘I can see there is a lot for you to take in,’ she said. ‘So I’ll leave you in peace to think about what I’ve said. I hope I can trust you not to tell your mother about our conversation? Bess would be heartbroken if she thought you knew.’
‘I won’t say anything.’
‘Good. She’s a proud woman, Polly. That’s half her trouble. She would rather blunder on and get herself into an even bigger mess than ever admit she was wrong.’
Polly smiled in spite of herself. ‘That sounds like my mother!’
‘And perhaps like you as well?’
As Polly showed her out, Miss Jarvis leaned in to brush her cheek with a fleeting kiss. ‘Take care of yourself,’ she said. ‘I hope we’ll see you in Steeple Street soon?’
‘I – I can’t say.’ Polly dropped her gaze.
Miss Jarvis sighed. ‘Look, I don’t know if anything I’ve told you will make a difference to you. I can’t tell you what to do, or whether to come back to nursing. But whatever you do, I hope you can forgive your mother. After everything she’s been through, I think she deserves that at least.’
Chapter Forty-Four
‘And what are these supposed to be?’
Annie Pilcher looked at the pile of books with as much distaste as if Christine had dumped a dead rat on her kitchen table.
‘Encyclopaedias,’ Christine said. ‘They’re worth a lot of money, honest,’ she added, seeing Annie’s expression. ‘My ma saved up ages to buy them.’
Her voice faltered. She couldn’t bear to remember Lil’s face, shining with pride and love on Christmas Day as she’d handed them over.
‘Did she indeed?’ Annie arched one eyebrow. Christine cringed as she watched the woman flicking through the pages with her grubby, pointed fingernails. ‘Well, they in’t my cup of tea, but I s’pose they might fetch a few bob.’ She shrugged and looked at Christine. ‘We’d best get on with it then, hadn’t we?’
‘Could I sit down for a minute?’ Christine said. ‘I’m not feeling very well.’
Annie was instantly on her guard, eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing. I – I’ve just got a bit of backache, that’s all.’
‘That’ll be the baby, pressing on your spine.’ Annie nodded knowingly. ‘How far gone did you say you were?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You mean you don’t know when your monthlies stopped?’ Christine shook her head. ‘Honestly, you girls! You’re as ignorant as lambs, the lot of you. Some of the lasses I’ve seen don’t even know how they ended up pregnant in the first place!’ Annie cackled. Christine looked away, hoping she couldn’t see her blush in the dim light. ‘Anyway, we’ll soon sort you out,’ Annie went on. ‘Go into the other room and get up on the bed while I wash my hands.’
Christine hesitated in the doorway. ‘Will it hurt?’ she asked.
‘I daresay. But it’ll be worth it in the end. I can give you a nip of brandy to help the pain, if you like?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t drink.’
‘Proper little saint, in’t you?’ Annie laughed harshly. ‘Well, don’t just stand there gawping, lass. Go and get yourself comfy. I’ll be in in a minute.’
The other room, as Annie called it, was the front parlour. Heavy chenille curtains were pulled over the windows, blocking out the light. In the centre stood a bed, covered with a stained brown mackintosh sheet.
Christine felt her belly cramp in protest at the sight of it. She cradled the softly rounded shape she had grown so used to. She couldn’t allow herself to think of it as a baby, not now. Just as she never allowed herself to think of Oliver, and how he used to love her, and how different everything might be if he still did.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
Beside the bed was a small table. Arranged on it was a length of rubber tubing, a jug and bowl, and various bottles.
Christine picked up the nearest one, pulled out the cork stopper and sniffed it. The pungent aroma of disinfectant nearly knocked her sideways.
‘Now then, what are you doing?’
Annie’s voice startled Christine so much she nearly dropped the bottle. The older woman stood in the doorway, a steaming mug in her hand. Christine caught a strong whiff of earth and rotting vegetables. ‘I was only looking.’
‘Nosing around more like. Always curious, in’t you? Always asking questions.’ She put the mug down, then took the bottle from Christine, replaced the cork and put it back on the table. ‘But you don’t have to look so worried. I won’t be using that lot on you.’ She nodded towards the equipment. ‘Not if you’re as far gone as I think you are.’
Christine stared at her in dismay. ‘Then what—’
‘I’ve brewed you one of my concoctions!’ She picked up the mug and hel
d it out to her. ‘A few swigs of this will sort you out in no time.’
Christine peered into the murky brownish-green liquid. It looked and smelt as if Annie had skimmed it from the canal. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Never you mind! All you need to know is that it will work. Now drink it down, then I want you to go home and take yourself straight to bed.’
Christine eyed her fearfully. ‘And then what?’
‘Let nature take its course.’
‘But I can’t go home!’ Christine’s heart thudded in panic.
‘Well, you can’t stay here!’ Annie snapped. ‘I don’t want no lasses giving birth on my doorstep, thank you very much!’ She tutted. ‘Look, you’ll have to find somewhere,’ she said impatiently. ‘Now, come on. Be a good girl and drink it down. The sooner you do it, the sooner all this will be over.’
‘Man o’ War. Now there was a horse if ever there was one. Do you know, he won the Belmont Stakes by twenty lengths?’
‘Really?’ Agnes did her best to sound interested. Isaiah Shapcott was in one of his talkative moods, and she knew there would be no stopping him.
‘It’s true. And he won the Kenilworth Park Gold Cup by one hundred lengths. A hundred lengths! Can you imagine? By the time he finished his career, no other trainer would put their horses up against him. Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’
‘I suppose not.’
Agnes let her attention drift towards the window as Isaiah chattered on. She didn’t mind listening to him at all, but sometimes wished he would talk about something other than racehorses.
The snow had thawed to an unpleasant slurry of ice and slush that rendered the cobbled yards completely treacherous. Agnes could feel the icy dampness seeping through her shoes as she sat at the kitchen table, writing up her notes.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the screen, Isaiah chattered on. They had exhausted her limited knowledge of horses some weeks previously, so now their weekly meetings consisted of Agnes reading the Sporting Life to him from cover to cover, then settling back for a lecture on bloodlines, or trophies, or whatever racing-related topic Isaiah saw fit to discuss that day.
But at least she could catch up with her work. Isaiah didn’t seem to mind that she didn’t join in with any opinions of her own, as long as she was there to listen to him and supply the odd interested ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’.
‘It was a terrible shame when he retired five years ago,’ he was saying. ‘I would have liked to see him race in the flesh, instead of just reading about it and looking at pictures. You can’t really get an idea from pictures, can you?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Still, I daresay he’ll sire a few more champions before long.’
‘I daresay he will.’ Agnes had paused for a moment in the middle of writing up an account of Miss Wheeler’s phlebitis when a movement outside caught the corner of her eye.
She looked up to see a girl staggering across the yard, red hair streaming like a bright flag in the wind. She was bent nearly double, her arms wrapped around her middle.
‘Christine!’ Agnes shot to her feet and ran to the door, throwing it open. ‘Christine Fairbrass?’
Christine froze for a moment and looked round. She saw Agnes and hurried away, her boots slipping and sliding over the slushy cobbles in her hurry to escape.
‘Oi! Close that door, you’re lettin’ all the cold in. D’you want me to catch me death?’
Agnes turned to see Isaiah emerging from behind the makeshift screen, his teeth chattering, a thin towel wrapped around his narrow white body.
Agnes took one last look outside, but Christine had disappeared up the alleyway. She closed the back door.
‘I should think so too,’ Isaiah huffed. ‘I do have some modesty to protect, you know. I don’t want all the neigh-bours looking in. What were all that about, anyway?’
‘I just – saw someone I knew.’
‘In the yard? I shouldn’t think you did. Half the houses roundabout are falling down, in case you hadn’t noticed. In’t no one lives here except me and – her.’ His mouth curled.
‘Who?’ Agnes asked.
‘I don’t like to say. It in’t right. Not right at all.’ Isaiah tapped his temple. ‘They reckon I’m daft, but I know right from wrong, y’know. And what she does – well, I don’t hold with it. Not at all.’
‘Don’t hold with what, Mr Shapcott?’ Agnes tried to be patient, even though her mind was screaming. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Her.’ Isaiah moved to the window and twitched aside the curtain to peer out. ‘Annie Pilcher.’ He nodded towards the cottage opposite, the only other dwelling still standing intact in the tumbledown yard. ‘She kills babies.’
Agnes finished attending to Isaiah as quickly as she could then dashed off to look for Christine.
It was growing dark and the snow was falling again, flurries that struck her face like tiny, frozen knives while she searched the warren of alleyways. Freezing slush filled her shoes as she splashed through ankle-deep puddles. In her haste to get away, she had left her gloves at Mr Shapcott’s and her fingers throbbed with cold.
Back at Steeple Street the nurses would be settling down for their tea and wondering where she was, but Agnes didn’t dare abandon her search. She was too haunted by the vision of a distressed Christine staggering from Annie Pilcher’s house, clutching her belly.
That picture of fear and pain and loneliness stuck vividly in Agnes’ mind, because she knew only too well what it was like.
Perhaps Christine had gone home? If she was afraid and in pain, it made sense for her to seek help there.
Agnes knew she should go to see Lil Fairbrass at any rate. Even if Christine wasn’t there, Lil still needed to know what was going on. But Agnes could barely face the prospect, not after what had happened last time.
Lil had been angry enough when she’d thought Agnes was wrong. How angry would she be when she knew the nurse was right?
Lil’s house looked deceptively welcoming, with bright light streaming out into the yard. When Agnes peered through the window she saw Lil’s five sons sitting around the table with Lil at its head, dishing up food on to plates.
Christine’s place was empty.
Ignoring everything Bess had told her about being a guest and waiting to be invited, Agnes lifted the latch and let herself in. Lil probably wouldn’t allow her over the threshold anyway, if she knocked.
Six heads turned in her direction.
‘Oh, here we go. Seconds out, round two!’ one of the boys laughed, nudging his brother next to him.
Lil straightened up, gripping the ladle like a weapon. She was a terrifying sight, tall and broad as a man, a tangle of faded coppery hair hanging around her red face. ‘What do you want?’ she boomed. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve, showing your face—’
‘Where’s Christine?’ Agnes cut her off.
Lil’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘What do you want to know that for?’
‘Just tell me, is she here?’
‘She’s at the library.’ One of the boys, the eldest and most sensible in Agnes’ opinion, joined in. He must have seen the concern in her face, even if his mother was too angry to notice anything. He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Why? What’s happened?’
Agnes drew in a deep, steadying breath. ‘She isn’t at the library,’ she said. ‘I’ve just seen her coming out of Annie Pilcher’s house.’
Lil dropped the ladle with a clatter. ‘Annie Pilcher? But what would Christine be—’
Agnes watched the look of horror slowly dawn on Lil’s face. The high colour drained away, leaving her deathly white.
‘Now do you see why we’ve got to find her?’ said Agnes.
Lil sprang into action, mustering her sons.
‘Ernie, you go and look round the church … Tony, you search down by the goods station. Alfie, you’d best go round the market …’
‘What about my dinner?’ one of the younger ones protested.
Lil clipped him smartly around the ear. ‘Didn’t you hear what the nurse said? Your sister’s gone missing.’ Her voice was choked.
‘Where shall I go?’ Agnes asked.
Lil stared at her blankly for a moment, as if noticing her for the first time. Then she said, ‘You don’t have to trouble yourself, nurse. You’ve already done enough. Thank you for letting us know.’ She sounded stiff and overly polite, as if she was holding on to her manners with the last of her self-control.
Agnes shook her head. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I’m staying.’
‘But won’t they be expecting you back at the nurses’ home?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I want to help find Christine. You might need me,’ she added quietly.
She didn’t have to say any more. Lil stared at her for a moment and Agnes could see the other woman’s mind working. If Annie Pilcher had done her worst, then they would indeed need a nurse.
‘Aye, you’re right,’ Lil said at last. ‘You’d best come wi’ me.’
They searched for Christine for the best part of an hour, trudging through the freezing streets, their heads down against the cold. Neither of them spoke.
Lil was in a state of shock and disbelief. Agnes could see it written all over her grim profile as she walked beside her. She wished she could say something to comfort the woman but knew nothing she said would be welcome. The best Agnes could offer was her silence.
They must have scoured every inch of Quarry Hill. Every lane, every alleyway, every yard and terrace, they searched it all. They even ventured into some dark, ruined corners that Agnes had never seen before. Sinister, desperate-looking characters lurked in the shadows, and Agnes could feel their gazes following them. But Lil marched on, utterly fearless. She was a lioness searching for her cub, and nothing would stand in her way.
‘I can’t think where she might have gone,’ she muttered. ‘It’s not like Christine to stray far from home like this.’ She stopped dead, pressing her lips together. Once again, Agnes could read the thoughts going through her mind. After what had just happened, Lil must be wondering if she knew her daughter at all.
The Nurses of Steeple Street Page 34